She
by Bobbie
Summary: Tifa, in the aftermath. Cloti. Changed the rating for a reason, so mind it.
1. Chapter 1: different

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine; props to SquareEnix.

* * *

She knew that something had changed that day in the church.

Of course, lots of things would be different. With a cure for Geostigma, and dealing with the aftermath of the Remnants...and the near loss of someone not only she, but everyone had categorized as invincible. That last near catastrophe had transformed something within her, and upon his return at Aerith's church, more than ever she felt as though she needed to move forward. Life could not go on as it had been, as tenuously comfortable as it was.

It terrified her. So many things she was unsure of, so many ways that any attempt at change could backfire and cost her...well, everything.

More importantly, any change at this point would impact him, too; she had gotten adept at reading him, but even she didn't know how he felt about everything. Especially one subject in particular. One they'd been tiptoeing around so long it seemed they were experts at the art of evasion.

Any change also had the potential to affect two children who were her wards, and this, too, added significantly to her hesitation.

_But he almost died._ Well, he _did_ die. Had it not been for Aerith, she was sure she would have never seen him again.

Suddenly, that reality, above all others, made her prior fears exponentially insignificant in comparison.

She remembered wondering, the first time she caught his gaze after he'd awoke in the pool, if events had changed something for him as well. A swell of hope seized her at the vision of his smile, so peaceful, so serene. She was reminded of a different time, following a different conflict. He'd smiled then, too. She desperately hoped he never stopped smiling again.

She would have been happy to simply gather up the kids, head to the bar, and continue the celebration there. She had stood idly by as he made his way through the crowd, an arm around Denzel, who apparently wasn't about to release him any time soon. He good-naturedly received his hero's welcome from strangers and friends alike, even hugs from Barrett and Yuffie.

When he finally stood before her, his countenance softened somehow, and for a moment they just stood there, taking each other in. It was the weight of everyone's stare that finally propelled her forward, as she engaged him in a polite hug, one that left ample room between them as she whispered, "Welcome back." It had been the politically correct thing to do, with everyone around; Cloud had never been a fan of public displays of affection, as far as she knew. For that matter, he rarely offered any private ones, either.

So she was more than pleasantly surprised when she felt him step forward into her awkward embrace, was bewildered when his free arm looped around her waist and pulled her flush against him. It wasn't so much the strength of his hold that kept her from breathing so much as the shock of it all. Briefly, amidst all the other sensations his proximity was forcing, she felt a shaky exhalation near her ear, his breath warm against her neck, almost as if he were relieved. And then he was pulling away, before she could fully react, a rush of cool air against her newly damp skin forcing her to release the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

And then, something else. His free arm, the one not draped around Denzel, the one that only moments ago had been holding her to him so fiercely, casually reached out, his gloved hand sliding into hers, his grip strong as he turned to lead them out of the church. She fought not to stumble as she fell into step beside him, palm tingling from his warmth. She felt the blood rise to her cheeks, head spinning, her smile widening, her heart soaring.

"_I've always been with you."_

"_What I meant is...something different."_


	2. Chapter 2: desperate

AN: For disclaimer, see chapter 1.

* * *

She, like most other capable, functioning adults, had long ago come to terms with mortality. Life is short. She was surprised, after Meteor, to have found herself and many of her friends to still be alive. In some ways, it made living harder, to have been a part of this cataclysmic drama that nearly ended the planet, and yet, so many others, oblivious to the truth, paid the ultimate price.

_Sadness was the price to see it end._ She feels, most days, there will be no end to her sadness, and that is how it should be. Let the common folk revel in the mundane. It's what they fought for. Heroes don't get happy endings, not in the real world.

At times, though, she gives in to selfishness, indulging here and there, dabbling in joy. Having the privilege of being the only one that can do Marlene's hair right. Watching the hodgepodge members of her family inhale a home-cooked meal she prepared and beg for seconds. Cutting Denzel's hair (and even Cloud's, when he'd asked, which was no menial task).

Most days, these trivialities of a normal life, they are enough. More than she should hope for.

And at times, she craves, no, _needs_ more. On those nights, she often sits awake in her room, staring out her window, imagining other lives in other homes, and how other youthful twenty-somethings might be passing the time in the darkness, how Biggs, Wedge, and Jessie would pass the time...

She mourns something that never really was, and likely never will be. On those nights, she is not some immutable heroine. She is a human being, a broken-hearted woman, and she cries until she can't anymore, supine on her bed, face buried in her pillow to stifle the sound.

She used to think the passage of time would lessen her pain, but it only makes it more acute, reminds her exactly what is passing her by. Past mistakes destined to become future regrets, and she sometimes almost convinces herself that she's only making things worse by not letting herself be happy, that this bitter pill would be so much easier to swallow with only a small taste of something sweet.

Thoughts like these make her desperate, hungry for an outlet. And they've only seemed to have multiplied since his return. She equates it to a massive case of survivor's guilt, it's intensity directly proportional to any amount of good feeling. Seeing him open his eyes in the church that day had been, thus far, the happiest day of her life.

That night, after she was sure everyone was asleep, she snuck down to the pantry, pillow in her arms, afraid of being heard. Biting her trembling lower lip, she closed the door securely behind her, backing into the farthest corner and sinking to the floor as she smothered her cries, shoulders heaving with unrestrained despair. The memory of him holding her hand, of his arm around her waist, the comfortable silence during the journey back to the bar, even the way he'd said "good night" after tucking the kids in...it was too perfect. Made her almost believe that they might actually get to be a real family.

She shouldn't be so blessed, an ex-terrorist, a murderer. She didn't deserve the tender touches of a man who, as a boy, pursued a promise-fueled dream with such vigor, only to have that dream warp into a tortured, fragmented existence after years of poisoning and experimentation.

In some way, she felt it was partly her fault.

Maybe, in another world, in another universe, without ShinRa, without AVALANCHE...he might have gotten the nerve, she might have noticed, and they might have been a normal couple falling in love the normal way. She would have had a wedding, and bore him children, and they could grow old and die together.

Impossibly, she cries harder, screaming out her sorrow and her rage.


	3. Chapter 3: want

_If this is it, then why do I wait?_

_All tangled up in the strings of fate_

_If I wanted this so bad_

_Then why do I stand like I do?_

_Come in,_

_I never wanted anything like I want you._

-Doorway, Civil Twilight

* * *

She is tired of pretending that everything is okay only because he is alive, and under the same roof.

She is tired of the looks from Barrett, from Yuffie. Concern mixed with curiosity, and she can no longer summon a smile to appease them.

She gives, and gives, and gives, and she doesn't know how, because there is nothing left. There was a time when Marlene's hugs and Denzel's smiles were enough to keep her going. Perhaps, if he'd never come back...she thinks that might have been better.

He is a constant reminder of things unsaid, dreams unfulfilled, feelings unrequited. She wonders when she stopped being happy and started being so bitter, when heart in her throat turned to heart through the floor, spirit soaring to spirit crushed.

She aches when he is around, a pain that she cannot assuage. She used to try to hide it; this was his home, too, he helped build it. There was more than that, though.

She wanted his love. More than anything. But not his pity.

Now, she no longer has the energy to put up a front, to reassure him with small smiles and carefully placed hands. She skirts around him, and he notices, but there is more than enough to keep them both busy. Always has been, and she wonders if that's been the problem. So many what ifs, and she just can't entertain fantasies anymore.

She stares at herself in the mirror in her room late one night, naked and dripping from her shower, dull eyes listlessly traveling over smooth skin interrupted by too many scars. She is surprised to see tears well and fall silently, and her reflection stares back impassively, whispering, _He doesn't want_ you.

Perhaps. At one time, she thought she already had his heart. So self-assured. Had things changed so much?

She was so accustomed to people telling her how beautiful she was, but she wasn't going to believe it until _he_ told her, showed her.

_Do you love me? _

_Do you even see me?_

She wanted his love. It's what she told herself when she touched her own skin, when she dreamed of him in the dark. If she couldn't have that...

She was a fighter, for as long as she could remember. But for once in her life, she entertained the thought of settling for something else. Whatever "something else" was. Her mind hadn't grasped just what that was yet. Scratch that. Her body knew, but she was too ashamed to admit just how desperate she was becoming. Guilt easily suppressed desire when she'd catch his eye, the subtle, sweet, shy smile of his that was so familiar, so easily offered. His formality in her presence told her that he knew something was bothering her, but that smile told her he had absolutely no idea what it was.

He was either completely vapid, or she was doing a very good job. She chose to believe the latter.

* * *

"Is something wrong with Tifa?"

Marlene wasn't so easily fooled.

She held her breath, back pressed against the wall as she hovered on the stairs, an interloper, unable to move until she heard his answer.

"I don't know. But-" She could tell he was trying to answer without really answering, and his pause told her tomes. "I'm sure if there's something wrong, she'll come to us for help."

_Oh, Cloud, I could come to you for help. I just don't know if you would._

* * *

Three weeks later, she was alone for the second day that week. Denzel and Marlene had gone off with Barrett with plans on returning the following week, and, coincidentally (or, perhaps, not-so-coincidentally) Cloud had taken a few more arduous and lengthy deliveries, returning late, when she was supposed to be sleeping. He probably thought she needed the space, given her attitude of late.

She stood behind the bar, staring out across the empty room, having cleaned up for the night, the silence pressing in with almost suffocating force. She felt as though she would cry. She waited, but the tears never came.

Shower. Brush teeth. Comb hair. She secured a towel around her, having foregone her clothes, perhaps because she felt lazy, perhaps because there was no reason to cover up.

Stepping into the hall and turning out the light, she stood pensively in the stillness. Bare feet carried her to his office. She surveyed what she could in the dim light, slowing at his desk to let her fingers ghost over piles of slips, earmarked books, and a framed candid of their "family", taken just outside the bar.

She stopped at his bed, a flimsy cot that had somehow lasted much longer than either of them had likely anticipated. Reaching out, she grasped the pillow, clutching it with both hands as she pressed it to her face, breathing him in. Eyes shut, shoulders rose, then fell.

"Tifa?"

Eyes opened, but she didn't move. She wanted to believe she imagined it, but the atmosphere had morphed suddenly, charged and tense, so full after having been so empty just moments before.

Her movements were precise and slow..._harmless_. Replacing the pillow, she stood with her back to him, head bowed, and each second that she didn't move was agony, but less so than the prospect of facing him. What would she see? She didn't want to know. She didn't know what she was doing...what could she tell him?

Resolute, she turned, eyes to the floor, arms hanging limp, fighting the flush that was creeping across her chest, to her neck, and heating her cheeks, thankful, at least, for the cover the darkness provided. She waited, hands fisting, then relaxing. She had nothing to say.

She was a fighter, this much was true. His silence, however, was too harsh a blow. Her throat constricted. She wished she had the courage to look at him, to perhaps glean some kind of insight. He gave her nothing.

When the burn behind her eyes became too much, she moved to make her escape, holding her breath and keeping her head down as bare feet carried her closer to the door, but closer to him.

She almost made it, the weight of his stare an invisible force pressing upon her already heavy heart. And then, he moved.

One moment, the path lay clear before her, leading to the hall, the refuge of her lonely room and a closed door, questions unanswered to be later ignored. He was so predictable, and it was breaking her heart.

She hadn't anticipated a subtle sidestep on his part, effectively blocking her in. He'd hadn't purposefully moved so close in such a long time, even when she had a lot more than a towel on, and never had he taken the initiative to confront her so openly. She pulled back, swallowing a gasp, her eyes widening, her gaze level with his chest.

If there was any confusion about his intentions, he took one deliberate step forward, his proximity forcing her to scurry back. Reaching behind him, without turning from her, he closed the door.

With the added darkness came heightened awareness from her other senses. She could hear his measured breaths, hers, fast and shallow. She smelled how close he was, a mix of dust and sweat and leather and something else that was altogether him. She then became aware that she was shivering. She made no effort to rub her arms or hug herself, afraid that any movement on her part would shatter the moment.

She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. At the same time, she wanted him to do the same.

A scuff of boot heels on the floor, and he was moving past her, further into the room. She felt as though she'd been underwater for minutes, and had just broken the surface. Seconds later, a click, and then the room was awash with a soft glow of a desk lamp.

The dark had seemed less terrifying.

Still, he said nothing. She could hear him, the shifting of clothing, heavy boots dropping to the floor, the slide of leather over skin, the solid jingle of buckles, the agonizing descent of a zipper. A tired sigh and the pop of tendons over bone, and she could stand to look away no longer.

Her teeth chattered, forcing her to clench her jaw.

He was standing by the cot, bare from the waist up, his back to her as he worked to undo his pants, his machinations casual, as if she wasn't there. She was transfixed, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow upon his bare skin, the movements of the muscle beneath.

It had been too long since she'd last seen him without a shirt.

He paused then, choosing at that time to glance over his shoulder. Lapis met garnet and locked. Straightening, he held her stare as he lowered himself to the edge of the cot. Her lips parted, trembling, her jaw lax.

_Is this really happening?_

Light-headed, pulse buzzing in her ears, she looked away from him to the door. The stillness was too much. The uncertainty was stifling.

And then, his voice again, soft, beckoning, it seemed.

"I'm...here, now."

_Indeed._ Just like that, she felt the vice in her chest release, felt the suppressive weight evaporate from her shoulders. She could feel him watching her, waiting. A warmth was building deep in her belly and spreading out, and up, slow and sweet. She stopped shivering, felt the soreness in her shoulders dissipating.

She turned back to him, biting her lip as her eyes met his once again. He was staring, unwavering, and she allowed herself to stare openly back for the first time since his return at the church. In those few quiet seconds, she wordlessly told him everything he needed to know.

She watched as understanding dawned, saw the bob in his neck as he swallowed thickly. She could feel the tension building, charging the atmosphere between them.

He ducked his head, eyes on the floor, arms draped against his legs as nervous hands fidgeted between his knees. Offering furtive glances beneath his lashes, quick, and light, and not always at her face, she noted with an almost primal glee, he then stuttered, his voice catching and loaded with something dark and promising.

"Did...is...is there something you...wanted?"

She could only smile in reply.


	4. Chapter 4: tough

She realizes sometime between their fourth or fifth coupling that he's holding back.

She doesn't call him on it, because in all honesty, what she's been experiencing is so much more than she'd dreamed since she realized she wanted to be with him. She doesn't want to ruin it.

Three weeks later she is folding laundry, angry about a flyer she received in the mail about a census, and taxes, and politics, and has a normal life always been so frustrating? She can't even turn on the radio without wanting to grind her teeth lately.

She hears the heavy footfalls of his boots on the stairs, knows he's fresh from the shower, is reminded that there's a reason he showers in the morning as well as the evening nowadays, but can't conjure a smile at the thought of it.

She feels his arms slide smoothly around her waist as he hugs her from behind, so gentle...but at least the hesitation is gone.

"I can take a hit, you know."

Her voice is cool, calm, almost as if she is talking to him about her plans for the day, or the weather. She pauses in her folding to tilt her head to the side, his nose against her cheek.

"You won't break me," she whispers.

He says nothing, but she detects a change in his stance, can feel his breath hitch, coming shallow and fast against her neck and shoulder. She waits for a reply, the air between them thick and heavy.

His arms fall away from her, and he is gone, the echo of his footsteps receding into the garage. Seconds later, Fenrir's engine roars to life, and she waits until she can hear it no longer before she returns to her chores.

Fleetingly, she wonders if she should have kept her mouth shut.

* * *

He is late that night.

She anticipated as much. She wonders if he'll come home at all. She quickly abolishes the thought, knowing that his presence was more than just for her pleasure, her eyes darting briefly to the hallway beyond the open bedroom door, and the sleeping children that lie there.

She wonders if she read him wrong, wonders if that's possible given the years with him, decides she is thinking too much, and, with a resigned sigh, crawls into bed, prepared to sleep alone.

She is on the edge of sleep when she hears the purr of an engine just before it's silenced, the sound of the garage door closing soon after. The moments thereafter are endless, and too quiet. She is embarrassed at the warmth pooling in her belly, the ache building between her thighs, and she shifts, pressing her legs close together. The subtle movement brings no relief.

There is no hope of sleep, not now.

Impatience yields to worry, and she throws the covers aside, quickly donning her robe, bare feet padding softly across the cold floor as she tightens the sash.

She peeks into the hallway, hears nothing. Hesitating, she glances back at the empty bed, silently cursing the low hum coursing over her skin and the pull in her groin. Had she always been so needy?

The sound of metal clanging on concrete followed by a muttered curse erupts from below, and she can no longer wait.

His shuffling becomes louder as she descends, tip-toeing through the back room, hovering at the door separating the living area from the garage. She feels the humid wash of her own breath blown back against her face, forehead pressed against its cool solidarity. Suddenly, irrationally, she wishes she could take back what she'd said. She's not even sure if that's why he's so late, if it's why he's taking so damn long to come to bed, and although her left brain is contemplating all sorts of reasonable excuses-monsters, road work, bad weather, a misfit motorbike, random incarnate remnants with mommy issues-it does nothing to alleviate the growing pressure low in her belly.

She takes a deep breath, stealing herself for confrontation, her hand settling on the doorknob just as it's thrown open. She observes that she startles much too easily nowadays, her hand recoiling to her chest as if burned.

He is a mess, hair caked with sweat and dust and hanging limp in his face, partially obscuring one eye. His chest is heaving with exertion, lips parted to accommodate each inhalation, the zipper on his vest undone and parting to reveal the skin beneath, smooth, and supple, and slick. If he is surprised to see her, he doesn't let on. He changes the hold on the door, his hand gripping the jamb, fingers white, his body rigid. She watches him as he tries to slow his breathing, and, infuriatingly, he succeeds.

She scowls, feeling the blood humming in her ears, her heart banging against her ribcage at the sight of him. She could let it go, could end it now, satisfied that he's home, and safe, content that he'd likely lie down beside her later, would surround her with his clean, fresh-from-the-shower smell and pepper her with soft, light kisses until she responded, their bodies coming together in a simplistic symphony of quiet hisses, silken slides, and bitten-back gasps.

She wanted none of that.

The "no" that grinds out of her throat is almost feral as she presses forward, knocking his hand from the door with a quick jab of her palm against his forearm. She doesn't give him time to register what's happening, kicking the door shut behind her. He's backpedaling, eyes wide with surprise, and she reaches out to quickly grasp a fistful of his vest, stalling his retreat.

The kiss that follows is a first, bruising in its intensity. He doesn't react as quickly as she'd like, and she tells him so with a painful nip to his lower lip before her tongue skids along his teeth.

There's a long, drawn out hiss as he sucks in a breath, and she smiles against his mouth, both hands curling into the fabric of his vest now, holding her to him, refusing him the opportunity to recover.

He'll have to fight harder than that.

The shift is subtle, and almost immediate. Confusion melting into understanding, and now he is parrying with his own assault, and she is delighted to hear a strangled moan deep in his throat as he breaks away from her mouth to bury his face in her neck, gloved hands digging painfully into her hip and thigh. She lets her head fall back, eyes closed, a throaty chuckle escaping as he lifts her up, her back and head colliding with something solid-the door? the wall?-and there are stars swimming in front of her eyes, but she is beyond caring.

There is force, and animosity, and raw desire and with it pain, but the good kind, like a well-placed right hook.

And as he begins to blindly tear away her clothes, she thinks, _Now I have you._


End file.
